


take the friction from your lips

by honeypottrap



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Just to be safe, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Walking In On Someone, mentioned William Nylander/Mitch Marner, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 06:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12905757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeypottrap/pseuds/honeypottrap
Summary: It’s not Mitch’s fault, okay? It always seems so ridiculously hot in porn; the bottom showing up already prepped and ready to go, so, really, it made sense that it’d push all his buttons.





	take the friction from your lips

**Author's Note:**

> see end notes for dub con explanation

The bathroom door closes behind him with a click, and Mitch turns the shower to scalding hot before he strips down. He takes a deep breath, psyching himself up as he fiddles with the bottle of lube, waiting for the shower to warm up. 

Honestly, he thought the idea of showing up ‘DTF’ was overwhelmingly hot, and he was sure Willy would appreciate it, but he hadn't ever done it himself. Sure, it was fine when others were doing it for him -- good, even, -- but the clinical idea of stretching himself out had him nervously shifting before stepping under the hot spray. 

He took a deep breath, slicking a finger up before teasing his entrance, and -- yeah. Not feeling it. Too tight and tense, definitely uncomfortable.

Mitch exhaled and let his shoulders droop, trying to force calm. Yeah, that wasn't working either. It never felt _bad_ when someone else was doing it for him, though, so maybe he just had to pretend like it was someone else.

Smoothing his other hand down his abs to palm himself, he closed his eyes, calling up his staple fantasy of postgame locker room sex. Not very creative, sure, but usually effective. Shoved against a wall, heavy breathing in his ear and roaming hands, all where his teammates could see. Maybe it was after a win, maybe it was like a reward -- he was expected to like it, gruff praise in his ear as experienced hands took him apart piece by piece til he was trembling with need. The scratch of a beard against his neck, making him shudder as rough, bruising hands on his hips held him firmly in place, and, 

Okay, maybe it worked a little too well, he thought, fully hard now as his finger plunges in deep. He exhales at the slight stretch. It's not much, definitely not enough to accompany his fantasy accurately, but, more importantly, it’s not enough prep for Willy.

 _Stay focused_ , Mitch reminds himself as he teases a second finger around his rim, flushing at the sensation before pushing in, and -- 

He can’t completely bite back the noise that escapes. It's a lot, the stretch and the sensation. Lube from the first finger isn't enough, not with how much washed down the drain in his hesitation, and though the dry, bordering-on-painful friction certainly makes his breath catch, he doesn't actually want to get hurt. Maybe save that for another time.

Feeling the edge of arousal fading, he refocuses on his fantasy and fumbles around to quickly slick up his other fingers before the water washes the lube away, and, oh. That's way too much.

His second finger slides in with almost no resistance, and the stretch is precisely what he intended, what he wanted, but it's not enough now, not with the phantom ghost of a hand pushing against his shoulder blades -- there's just entirely too little sensation in the face of his imagination, not nearly enough touching. Mitch drives his fingers in faster, but it doesn’t help. The lube he added was far too much, he can’t feel the friction he craves at all, and it’s so frustrating, he can’t help but let out a groan. 

Somewhere in his mind, Mitch considers stopping, but the loud slick noises he gets when he fucks his fingers into himself make his lower stomach burn white hot in a mixture of shame and arousal. In no time he's working three fingers inside himself, so wet and messy and loud that once he's used to the stretch, there's not enough friction for it to be even close to enough. 

He’s changing up angles and depth, feeling around for his prostate, but the movement feels uncoordinated and foreign and it’s just not working. Mitch is breathing hard, loud in his own ears, when the door to the bathroom opens and Claude steps in and stops in his tracks. He’s wearing only a towel, ready for his own shower.

Mitch gives a startled shout, jerking his hands away, or, well, trying to. The motion causes his fingers to jam against his prostate, hard, and he can’t hold back a loud moan as his knees go weak, aborting the motion. Mitch pants wetly at the receding sensation, fingers still in his ass as Claude drops his towel, coming closer.

“Aw rook, I didn’t know you were that desperate, I would’ve come back sooner.” He croons, and Mitch flushes all the way down his neck, embarrassed into silence as he tries again to pull his fingers out more delicately. He has to stop again before he makes another noise. 

Claude tsks, stepping under the spray, and Mitch instinctually steps aside to make room, straightens his spine for his captain. His dick twitches at the thought. God, he’s so fucked up.

“Of course, touching yourself wasn’t enough. You wanted to be full. Needed it.” Claude gets a closer look, nudging Mitch back to press his back against the cold tiles. Mitch goes embarrassingly easy, shuddering at his words.

“And even three fingers wasn’t enough. You’re so frustrated, needy for more. Needy to get fucked by a real dick.” He punctuates his words with a hand at Mitch’s wrist, a finger teasing at his entrance next to Mitch’s own, and it feels like lightning the way it causes a wave of arousal to course through Mitch, but then he just. Stops. It’s killing Mitch to stay still, not to press back into Claude’s touch.

“You need some help, rookie?” He says carefully, and Mitch meets his eyes.

It’s like opening a floodgate as words spill from Mitch’s mouth.

“Please, _please_. It’s not enough.” Mitch gasps, desperate, as he feels Claude’s fingers rub at his rim. Claude pulls at Mitch’s wrist and this time his fingers slip out easily before quickly being replaced by Claude’s. Mitch’s eyes widen with a shout as Claude twists three fingers into him. They’re thicker, rougher, and get much deeper than his own. It’s a good stretch, and Mitch can’t help but try and rock back onto them, try and get them deeper, and Claude laughs.

“You’re so wet, rookie. How’d you get so messy?” He says, fucking his fingers in and out. The sound is obscene, slick and loud even over the sound of the shower, and Mitch feels his arousal burn even brighter. He’s so horny he can’t think, can’t convince himself that this isn’t a better option than what he’d been planning.

“You want it?” Claude asks, punctuates his words with a harsh thrust against Mitch’s hip.

“Yeah.” Mitch breathes, words hitching as Claude presses directly on his prostate. “ _Yes_. F-fuck me, please.” 

Claude doesn’t hesitate, quickly replacing his fingers and sliding in impossibly deep with one quick thrust that has Mitch moaning, hands scrambling back over the wall to hold on in an attempt to stay upright. He ends up holding the safety bar in a death grip, exhaling roughly against the sudden pressure inside. There’s no time to adjust to the stretch, and Mitch’s mouth acts of its own accord, making little _Ah, ah, ah_ noises on each thrust.

“It’s just like sloppy seconds, you’re already so stretched,” Claude grunts into his ear, grinding in deep, and Mitch’s mouth gapes open. “Couldn’t wait, could you, nearly about to try and fit your own hand because it still wasn’t enough.” 

He’s still so slick that each movement isn’t enough friction, but the way Claude’s fucking him -- erratic and slow, without any regard for Mitch’s pleasure, gruff voice harsh in his ear -- has him gasping, hips grinding into nothing as he just barely tips over the edge just in time for Claude to pull out completely and start jacking himself instead. 

Mitch cries out, clenching on nothing as he blindly seeks simulation without being able to use his hands, but it’s too late: the orgasm feels horribly empty, and he looks down at his dick to see it pulsing out cum in waves that _hurt_. It feels like a mistake, like something that was never meant to happen, and he sobs on his next breath, body quaking.

Claude groans, “God, look at you.” before coming all over his stomach, where it quickly washes down the drain.

Claude works himself through it, and Mitch’s eyes feel wet as he watches, dick still half hard and painfully red. He finally stops, cheerfully running a hand up and down Mitch’s flank as he reaches over to turn the shower off. Mitch feels frozen, sides quivering slightly from the cold and plateaued arousal he still feels, but his dick and ass far too raw and sensitive to consider finishing the job.

“Don’t forget about the team dinner. If you’re good I’ll let you come for real, after.” Claude says, toweling off and leaving the bathroom door open behind him. 

Mitch glances numbly up into the mirror as the steam fades from its surface. He looks ravished, completely fucked out -- eyes red and wet, a bright flush spread down his neck and over his chest. He splashes his face with cold water, which helps some, but Mitch feels like it’s written all over his face; how he couldn’t stop himself, how he’d begged to be filled by his captain, how even that orgasm wasn’t enough. How, in the end, it’d felt like a punishment.

His phone buzzes with a text from Willy, _‘?thought u were coming over ;p’_ , and Mitch is proud of the way his hands barely shake as he types out a response.

_‘srry, got caught up w the team. raincheck?’_

**Author's Note:**

> consent IS clearly given but there is some slight power dynamic(TM) stuff going on, and the sexual encounter starts before verbal consent is given. mitch doesn't know what a ruined orgasm is or is like, and in the end feels pretty shellshocked and mistrustful of G. 
> 
> inspired by [this picture](https://grapefruitfruits.tumblr.com/post/168159497395/dweeb-town-why-arent-we-talking-about-this). Also, willy/mitch at the same competition? [it's a lot](https://mayleafs.tumblr.com/post/167486170930)


End file.
